Part 16

I was now able to leave my cot for a short time, but not the cabin. The young widow was ever by my side, to minister to my wants. I felt much for her sorrows, which she bore with pious resignation; but I had no power to minister to her comforts as my gratitude prompted me, when I observed her, as I lay in my cot, weeping in silence, when she thought me asleep. It was the third day after I was picked up, as I sat in the cabin, and felt myself much recovered, that I gave her an account of my leaving home, and my adventures since. She sat and listened with interest, and seemed much affected by my account of my friend, James Walden. She sighed heavily as I proceeded, and her tears fell fast. When I mentioned his untimely death, she uttered a piercing cry, and fell insensible upon the floor. I cried loudly for help; and her servant and the captain, who were on deck, came quickly to my aid. After some time she recovered, but was so ill that she was forced to be put to bed by her maid. Her mind seemed quite unsettled by what I had said of my friend's death; for she spoke strangely and incoherently, unconscious of what she uttered; often repeating, "James, I shall never see you more. How could I hope? I wished, but dared not hope, humbled as I was--yet frown not on me so; I am more to be pitied than hated." Thus she continued during the greater part of the day.

Towards evening, she became more composed, but was so ill that she could not leave the state-room without the support of her servant, which she did contrary to the remonstrances of the captain; only replying--

"What is life now to me but a dreary blank? O that I were at rest under these rolling waves! O Mr Elder! have you strength to tell me all you know of James before my heart bursts?"

I could myself have wept; but her eyes were dry, yet heavy and languid; her face pale as marble, with a ghastly composure upon it, more heart-moving than clamorous grief. Again I went over every circumstance, and concluded by regretting the prayer-book, as the only article I valued, left on board. She heard me the second time without altering a muscle of her face. When I finished, she said--

"I was Matilda Everard; these fingers wrote the name upon the prayer-book, which I gave to James Everard, my cousin. Walden was the name of his mother; he was an orphan, the ward of my father; I am an only daughter. We were brought up together. I was my father's only child--an heiress; he had little more than his own abilities to depend upon. I was a spoiled child, thoughtless and volatile. I loved him then as a brother. He was some years older than I; he loved me as never man loved woman. I sported with his misery; for I knew not love. My father discovered his passion, and banished him from the house. I regretted him as a brother--no, not as a brother--as a playmate. His feelings of honour were so high, he took no covert means to meet me again; but I saw him often at church, and elsewhere. I used to kiss my hand to him; but we never exchanged words. Urged by my father, I married a rich merchant. He was much older than I. The cold, haughty, and money-making habits of my husband first turned my thoughts to James. I contrasted the joy that used to beam in his eyes, when I smiled upon him, with the indifference of my husband; and my love, once that of a sister, became all that James could have desired, had I been still a maid. Upon my marriage, James disappeared. Neither my father nor any one else knew where he had gone. It is now three years--long, long years--since then. Circumstances called my husband to Quebec, that, if not looked after, might involve him in ruin. Jealous and morose, he took me with him. Months of misery I dragged on there. My husband sickened and died. I am now on my way to my father; but I feel we shall never meet. My heart, I feel, is broken, and life ebbs fast. Farewell! and may you be blessed for your kindness to James. Bury me in the waves; I long to sleep by his side."

Having taken farewell of the captain, she retired, and we never saw her again in life. Some time after, agreeable to her request, she slept with James under the waves of the Atlantic. For some days I was much affected by the melancholy event; but my spirits, with my health, gradually returned. A few weeks more would bring me to my father's house, and I resolved never again to trust to any political prognosticator, even of my own father, for I had never known him so much deceived before. I had been eighteen months away, and the war, so far from being over, was, if possible, fiercer than ever; and the democrats of France were carrying murder and desolation wherever their armies went.

THE ANGLER'S TALE.

Never did boy long more anxiously for the arrival of the happy day which was to free him from the trammels of school discipline than I, a grey-haired man, always do for the return of bright and beautiful summer--that happy season when all nature seems to sympathise with the fortunate citizen who can escape from the confinement, bustle, and excitement of the crowded haunts of men, to soothe his spirit and forget his cares amid the beautiful scenery and calm retirement of the country. I always allow myself, if possible, a holiday in the summer months; and with rod in hand, and knapsack on back, I wander wherever whim or chance may lead me. Oh! the delight I experience, when the city is left far behind me!--the buoyancy, the springiness of feeling, with which I whistle along my path, rejoicing in my freedom! The very birds seem to welcome me with their song; the fields, the streams, all seem breathing of delight; I forget my grey hairs; and the spirit of youth and the freshness of youthful feeling are again upon me.

In one of my fishing excursions, a few years since, I became accidentally acquainted with a worthy farmer of the name of Thompson, who lived on the banks of the Esk, in the neighbourhood of the beautifully-situated town of Langholm. He was a good, though by no means a rare, specimen of the class of men to which he belonged--a shrewd, sensible, well-informed man, frank and friendly in his address, and with an air of quiet, unobtrusive independence.

He made up to me with such kindness and hospitality, and was so cordial and pressing in urging me to repeat my visit, that I have ever since made his comfortable house my head-quarters during the fishing season. His cottage was beautifully situated on a gentle rise, surrounded by lofty trees; immediately below ran the winding Esk, dashing and foaming over a bed of limestone, and spanned, at a short distance, by a lofty bridge of one arch, commanding a view of the ruins of the famed tower of Gilnockie. The neat and cheerful exterior of the cottage bespoke comfort and plenty within; and kinder and more hospitable people never existed than its inmates. Elsie Thompson, the good-wife, in her plain but neat "mournings," and her close white mutch, mild and gentle in her manner, looked the very personification of benevolence and hospitality. She had been a very handsome woman; but the hand of affliction had been heavy upon her, and had left its marks upon her careworn features: four of her children had been carried off by a contagious disorder, and her sole remaining comfort, besides her husband, was her daughter.

Ellen was one of the loveliest creatures my eye ever rested upon. Hers was a face of sunny beauty. The braids of her rich brown hair rested upon a brow of more than common whiteness, from beneath which her large blue eyes sparkled with the light of pure and innocent joyousness. The whole of her features bore the impress of light-hearted mirth; and yet at times a passing shade of sadness flitted across them, which, while it softened their beauty, gave an additional charm to their expression. But it was not Ellen's beauty alone that rendered her interesting: a kinder-hearted, more attentive and affectionate daughter never existed; her whole soul seemed to be wrapped up in her parents; her every action had reference to some wish or habit of theirs. She was equally exemplary in the performance of all her household duties, and was the pride and blessing of her parents.

Ellen and I soon became intimate; for, in the country, untrammelled by the forms of etiquette, acquaintance soon ripens into friendship. Fortunate was it for me that my days of romance were over, or she would have been a dangerous companion; as it was, I could gaze upon her as I would upon a beautiful picture, admiringly, not lovingly. Many a happy evening have I spent, sitting in the mild summer sunset, under the shade of the large beech-tree at Edward Thompson's door, listening to the brawling of the foaming waters, with Ellen by my side. It was at such times that I more particularly remarked the melancholy I have before mentioned. Her thoughts were evidently far from the scene she looked upon, and a tear would sometimes steal down her cheek. Whenever I asked her the occasion of her grief, she would answer, with a languid attempt at a smile, "Oh, naething ava!" and immediately began to talk in a strain of forced liveliness and indifference. I saw that she had some secret cause of unhappiness; but, as she did not volunteer her confidence, I did not consider myself justified in attempting to force it, and set her unhappiness down in my own mind to that general and all-powerful disturber of youthful feelings--love for some absent one.

Last summer, I had been engaged in my favourite amusement of fishing, and had wandered some distance down the Esk, when certain inner warnings admonished me that it was time to recruit my energies. As I am rather an epicure, however, and enjoy my crust with more _gout_, the more beautiful the scenery by which I am surrounded, I resisted the cravings of appetite until I had reached a situation the beauty of which tempted my stay, and then, laying my rod on the bank, I proceeded to examine the contents of my knapsack. It was high noon; but the sun was partially shrouded by light fleecy clouds, and threw a softened light on the green bank on which I seated myself. Immediately at my feet ran the clear stream, fringed a little higher up with willows and trees of a larger growth; opposite to me were the rich woods and lawns of Netherby; to the left, on the other side of the river, was a picturesque, ivy-covered, turreted building, called the fishing tower; to the right, far down the river, were seen the bridge and buildings of Longtown; and in the distance, the beautiful hills of Cumberland. The high-road was only a few yards distant, immediately behind me; but I was shut out from its view by a substantial stone wall, with a neat gate opening to the water-side. Scarcely had I seated myself, when I heard the sound of coming footsteps on the high-road. The sound ceased; and, turning round, I saw a traveller looking over the green gate behind me. I am a great disciple of Lavater, and flatter myself, notwithstanding the many mistakes I have been led into, that I can sometimes read a man's countenance, almost as well as a "written book." To me, a good countenance is always a letter of recommendation, and one to which, in spite of the whisperings of prudence, I always pay instant attention. There was something particularly prepossessing in the countenance and appearance of the stranger. He was a young man of about six-and-twenty, with a laughing dark eye, hair black as the raven's wing, and a complexion bronzed by exposure to sun and clime. He was dressed like a sailor, in a neat blue jacket, a narrow-rimmed glazed hat, and with a small bundle on the stick over his shoulder. Seeing me look round, and encouraged, I suppose, by the friendly interest with which I regarded him, he remarked upon the fineness of the day, and asked if I had had good sport.

"Yes," replied I, "tolerable; and now I have a tolerable appetite. Will you come and join my mess?"

"Thank ye kindly, sir--wi' a' my heart. I've travelled far to-day, and I'll be a' the better of an _elevener_."[4]

[Footnote 4: A nautical term for a forenoon whet.]

After a hearty and simple meal, washed down with a dram of Connal's best,[5] and a draught of pure river water, I lighted my cigar, and, giving my new messmate one, to keep me in countenance, I lounged in luxurious ease upon my grassy couch, while he seated himself with modest frankness beside me.

[Footnote 5: Langholm Distillery.]

"Your face tells of other climates, my friend," says I; "it was not an English sun that bronzed it thus."

"It's five years noo, sir, sin' I left the banks o' the bonny Esk; and weel ye ken that a wanderer by land and sea sees mair in a year than a man that aye sits at the ingle-cheek will in his lifetime. Gude be thankit, I haena felt muckle care or sorrow mysel! but I hae had my ain share o' hardships."

"You seem not to have forgot your mother-tongue, however. You are a native of this part of the country, I suppose?"

"I am, sir; and though I've been lang aneugh amang the Englishers to hae been half English mysel, I couldna mak up my mouth to speak their daft-like lingo; and noo the sicht o' my ain dear river, the thocht that I'm but a few miles frae my ain hame, has dung what little I did ken o't clean oot o' my head."

"I wonder you are not in a greater hurry to get onwards," said I. "I think, if I were in your situation, I should be eager to reach my home as soon as possible."

"Oh, sir, I maun gang and see puir Geordie Gordon's folk before I gang hame. It's ill news I hae to tell them, and I maun wait till the gloamin."

"And who is Geordie Gordon?"

"He was the kindest-hearted o' messmates, and the best o' freends. A better seaman, or a kinder, never stepped atween stem and stern o' a ship. Puir Geordie!" And he hastily passed the sleeve of his jacket over his eyes.

"Suppose you let me hear some of your adventures," said I; "it will pass away the time, and I should like much to know something of the ways of you sailors, and the customs on board a ship."

"Oh, sir, I hae nae adventures to tell. Could you but hae heard puir Geordie--he was the lad for spinning yarns, as we ca' it."

"Well, but you can tell me what took you first to sea, and what you thought of the life of a sailor after you had joined a ship."

"Weel, sir! I'll just begin at the beginning, and tell ye a' aboot it; and if ye're wearied wi' my clavers, ye maun just tell me:--"

There was a large family o' us, and a happy family we were--for my faither was an industrious farmer, weel to do in the world, and weel respeckit by a' wha kenned him; and my mither was a kind-hearted, worthy woman, wha dearly lo'ed us a', but never let her luve blind her to our fauts. She aye taught us that idleness was the root o' a' mischief, and that we needna fear man as lang's we did our duty to our Maker.

I was about seventeen when Geordie Gordon cam hame frae the sea, to see his folk, wha lived in our parishen. A heartsome and a weel-faured lad was Geordie, wi' a merry ee, and a laugh--I maist think I hear't noo--that cam ringing frae the heart. He was a favourite wi' auld and young; and mony was the bright ee that blinked o'er on him as he sat in the kirk wi' his roun blue jacket, and his checkit sark, and his smiling happy face. Jenny Birrel was his sweetheart; a blithe lass and a bonny was Jenny, and guid as she was bonny. Wae'll be her heart when she hears what has happened her Joe!

Weel, sir, I was like the lave--I likit Geordie, and Geordie likit me, and we were aye thegither. It garred my vera heart loup to hear him spin yarns, as he ca'd it, about the dangers he had escapit, and the unco sichts he had seen; till, frae less to mair, I felt an eager wish to gang wi' him on his neist voyage, and to witness the wonders o' the deep, and to veesit forran lands. Besides, I saw that a' the lassies thocht mair o'ane who had been leading a life o' danger and hardship, than o' the douce lads wha keepit following the pleuch, or thumping wi' the flail a' the days o' their lives. And I thocht that my ain wee Joe wad lo'e me better, and that I micht earn something to mak us comfortable; and that, after I had seen a' the ferlies o' forran lans, I wad come hame laden wi' braws to mak her my wife. Bonny wee thing! I wonder if she minds me yet! In storm, in darkness, in danger, I never forgot _her_.

Sair did my mither greet when I tell't her I was for awa wi' Geordie; and aft, aft did she beg me to change my min'.

"Stay at hame, Tam, my bairn," said she, "and tak care o' yer auld mither. A' the lave are gane but yersel, and if ye gang too, what'll become o' us!" But I wadna be persuaded; the spirit o' change was upon me, and gang I wad.

"I winna hinder ye, my bairn," said my faither; "if yer min' is made up to gang for a sailor, gang, and His blessing gang wi' ye. Ye'll be as safe in the midst o' the raging sea as ye wad be by yer ain fireside, as lang's ye trust in Him."

But the warst was to come. I maist repented o' my determination when I gaed for the last time to the trysting tree, whar I had sae aft met my dear lassie. She was there, wi' her face buried in her hans, sabbing as if her young heart would break. Oh, sir, it was a sad sicht to me!

It was a bonny nicht: the moon was at the full, and the stars were a' glinting roun' her; there wasna a cloud, but on our ain hearts; the hail holm was ae bleeze o' licht, amaist as licht as day; the leaves were just soughing o'er our heads; and the soun' o' the burn wimpling near us cam clear upon our ears. Our hearts were owre sair for muckle speaking; she sabbit, and I tried to comfort her--but a' in vain. I wanted comfort mysel; and at last I could stan' it nae langer--I just grat in company.

But this couldna last for lang. We vowed to be leal to ilk ither; and, wi' ae last kiss, I forced mysel awa.

Neist morn, Geordie Gordon and I took foot in han' and awa to Leith, and frae that worked our passage to Lunnon. Weel, sir, it's an awsome bit that Lunnon! The streets just like hedgeraws, and the kirk steeples like poplar-trees; and then the folk as thrang on the planestanes on a week-day as if a' the kirks were scaling at ance! Ye'll hae been in Lunnon, I'se warran, sir? Min', I'm just telling ye hoo I thocht and felt then, for I ken better sin' syne. Then the ships a' crooding on ane anither, like sheep in a fauld, their masts as thick as the trees in yon wud: and the muckle barges wi' but ae man to guide them; and the wee bit cockleshells o' wherries skimming alang, loaded wi' passengers sitting amaist upon the water; and the noise o' men, and the thunner o' carriages, and the smoke o' ten thousand chimlas! 'Od, sir, I used to think Car'il a grand toun, but it's naething ava to Lunnon.

Weel, sir, ae day, Geordie and me were walkin on a place they ca' Tower Hill--whar there's a grand auld castle they ca' the Tower o' Lunnon, where they say a sodger chiel, o' the name o' Julius Caesar, was beheadit langsyne, in the time o' ane o' our auld Scottish kings--when a weel-faured, sonsy-looking chiel, dressed like a provost, wi' a hat on his head might serve a duke, cam up till us, and seeing us glowering aboot, and just doing naething ava, began colloquying wi' us.

"It's a fine day, my lads," said he, looking as blithe as the sun in a May morning. "You seem to be strangers in London. I like your honest looks; and, as I am an idler myself, I will go with you, if you like, and show you the lions."

"The lions! 'od, sir, are there ony lions hereawa?" said I.

"Many that you know nothing of," said he, stuffing his pocket-napkin into his mouth, to keep the dust oot, I thocht. "Come with me, and we'll drink to our better acquaintance."

Wi' that he taks us into a bit public near by, and tells us to ca' for what we likit; and then he crackit awa, and was unco jocose and blithe.

"Have you got plenty of money, lads?" said he at last. And we lookit like twa fules, for Geordie had but twa shillins left, and I had nae mair mysel. He saw, for he had a gleg ee in his head, that we werna weel provided; so cried he, "Never mind, my boys--I'll stand treat; the landlord o' this house is my friend; you can have whatever you call for, and stay with him as long as you like."

Wi' that he ca'ed for mair drink; and, frae ae thing to anither, what wi' laughing and drinking, we got gey and fou, and were weel pleased to win till oor beds.

"Troth, Geordie, lad," says I, "I think we've lichted on oor feet this time; it's no every day in the week we'll meet sic a freend."

"I dinna ken what to mak o' him," said Geordie, wha kenned mair aboot the warld than mysel, as he had been three years sailing atween Dumfries and America; "he's owre ceevil by half. I've aye heard tell that there's a set o' born deevils in Lunnon. It's a' vera weel as far as it's gane; but I'm feared for the aftercome."

Weel, the neist morning, oor kind freend ordered breakfast for us, and then asked us if we'd like to tak a walk and look aboot us. "But," said he, "you must have better _toggery_ than that you have on." And wi' that he took us into a shop, where he ordered a jacket and trousers for each o' us; and, when we had putten them on, we cam oot, looking as braw as the best. In the coorse o' oor cracks, we had tell't him we wanted to go to forran parts.

"Well," said he, "there's a fine East Indiaman at Gravesend, just going to sail for China. I can get you a berth on board of her."

Now, though Geordie and I were baith keen to gang to sea, yet we wanted to choose oor ain ship; and, besides, we had resolved no to gang in ane o' the East India Company's ships; for the lads on board the smack, coming frae Leith, had tell't us to keep clear o' the Indiamen, for that they were manned wi' the sweepings o' Newgate, and that there was mair flogging on board o' them than in the navy.

"We're no for sailing in a Company's ship, sir," said I; "we'll choose for oursels."

"Very well, lads," said he; "but before we part, we must '_square yards_,' if you please. Pay me what you owe me." And, wi' that, he pulls oot a bill as lang's my airm, for sae muckle meat, sae lang lodging, and sae muckle for claithes.

"'Od, sir," said I, "did ye no treat us? Ye ken vera weel we haena a bodle to pay ye wi'."

"Then you must either tramp to prison, or go on board the Indiaman. What say you?"

"Weel, if we maun gang, we maun, and there's an end o't; but ye ha'ena behaved to us like a gentleman and a Christian."

"A gentleman and a Christian!" said he, girning; "why, you Scotch noodle, I'm a crimp!"

("And what, in the name of wonder, is a crimp?" said I, interrupting Tom in his long-winded story.

"A crimp, sir!" said Tom; "d'ye no ken what's a crimp? Why, sir, a crimp is, ye ken--a crimp _is_--hoot, he's just a crimp."[6]

"Very satisfactory, certainly," replied I. "However, go on with your story.")

[Footnote 6: A crimp is a person who receives a certain sum of money from shipowners for procuring sailors to man their vessels.]

Neist morning, Geordie and I, wi' mony ithers, were put into a Gravesend boat, and sent down tae a bit ca'ed Northfleet, whar the Indiaman was lying at the buoys. She was the first large ship I'd ever seen--and eh! but I was astonished. I hae seen mony a ane since, and far bigger anes; but she aye seems to my min' the biggest o' them a'. She was ca'd the True Briton; and grand she did look, wi' her tall masts, and her colours a' fleeing abroad, and the muckle guns peeping out o' the holes in her sides they ca' ports. When we speeled up her sides, it was maist like munting a hill; and when we got on board, I was fairly 'mazed, and stood glowring frae the gangway as if I were bewitched, till a chiel, wi' a face like a foumart, and a siller pipe hanging round his neck wi' a black riband (he was a boatswain's mate), ca'd out to me--

"What are you staring at, you great fool? Come down from the gangway!"